


Buttercup Boys and Goldenrod Girls

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Background Relationships, Multi, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Plot Without Plot, Queerplatonic Relationships, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: The first time Raoul sees Christine at the Opera Populaire he asks her if she’s seeing any of the pretty ballerinas.





	Buttercup Boys and Goldenrod Girls

The first time Raoul sees Christine at the Opera Populaire he asks her if she’s seeing any of the pretty ballerinas.

It’s not his opener. Obviously there are other priorities: congratulations on a fine performance, condolences on the death of her father, inquiries on how she likes her current position. But when the dust has settled he asks her, because they’ve always been candid with each other in ways they can’t be with other people, and he knows Christine likes a little gossip.

Christine smiles enigmatically. “I don’t kiss and tell, Raoul.”

Except she does. Five minutes later she’s graphically describing her last encounter with a ballerina named Meg Giry, who she says is a little bit flighty but very fun.

“Mm, I’m glad you’re having fun,” Raoul says.

Christine says, “Well, you have to be careful, you know. Quite a few of these ballerinas like me. But a lot of them seem to be infatuated and they’d want things to be serious.”

Christine doesn’t do serious. Not that her affairs aren’t important to her, not that she doesn’t like them, but Raoul has never known her to stick to a single lover for longer than a few months. She doesn’t like girls who tell her they want to be her soul sister or her one true love. Most of the time she doesn’t like men at all.

“There have been quite a number of men,” she informs Raoul. “Some of them are like the ballerinas. They think I’m an angel.” She quirks an eyebrow. “And then some of them just want to sleep with me.”

“Well, it’s not surprising,” Raoul says.

“No,” Christine agrees serenely. “But of course I’ve sent them all away. You’re the first man I’ve let into my dressing room since I debuted as a singer. It’s nice to be able to actually keep a bouquet of roses.”

“Surely there must be some female patrons who send roses.”

“Not yet. Though I’ve received some lovely letters. But I do thank you for the roses, Raoul. They’re beautiful.”

There are ten of them, all of them a golden yellow. Christine arranges them in a glass vase, and Raoul notices there is one red rose on her table, with a bow around it. A present from Meg?

But then they return to reminiscing about the old days in Perros-Guirec, and he quite forgets about it.

* * *

 

“So the singer turned out to be Christine Daae,” Philippe says.

“Yes. I hope we will be able to keep in touch more now. She is just as I remembered her.”

“And you brought her yellow roses.”

“Yes.”

Well, Philippe thinks, perhaps it is for the best that Raoul not be romantically entangled with an opera singer. Nevertheless he can’t help but remember the way the pair always used to be. Closer than two petals on the same flower and somehow absolutely familial. He watched Raoul carefully back then, worrying that he might fall in love with a girl who would break his heart by not returning his affections. And yet it never occurred, unless Philippe was somehow gravely deceived.

They are simply a very odd couple. Again, he will have to keep an eye out.

* * *

 

“I saw a very handsome man today,” Raoul tells Christine.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve seen him before. Vaguely Oriental type, I think. There’s a sort of a cap...” Raoul gestures vaguely around his head. “And his skin is very dark. He has a thoughtful sort of face, yet it is sad somehow. I have seen him three times.”

“That’s the Persian,” Christine says wisely. “Or, some call him the Daroga—I don’t know his real name. He’s around a lot, you’re right. But he’s harmless.”

“He seems interesting.”

“I could arrange a rendezvous, if you want,” Christine offers. “Probably. Of course, it’s hard to tell if he’d be interested but you could give it a good try.”

Raoul blushes. “I think it would be best to let it be. I doubt he’d have the time to talk to me…Besides, I have no business with him, really.”

“You just feel like you could take a man like that walking by the Seine.”

Raoul shrugs. He is not as good at explaining his feelings as Christine. It’s a crush, he suspects, but not the type she has. Besides, these things come and go. He doesn’t feel the urge to chase the man necessarily.

Christine sighs. “Well, if you want to meet with him, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

They are in her dressing room, and she is half naked. She is changing out of a complicated costume into a somewhat more straightforward dress. She asks Raoul to do the ties at the back, and he complies.

She has grown comfortable being bare around Raoul. He never really reacts, though he’ll blush if she teases him. When she was a teenager she sometimes used to think about asking him to have sex—she wasn’t averse to it—but soon realized he did not see her that way at all. For a while she felt bitter but by now she’s mostly over it, even though she still sometimes teases him a little bit.

She’s been using Raoul a little bit too, though he has yet to realize it. Mostly to build up her reputation. People know he’s been spending a lot of time in her dressing room, and they’ve seen her come in and out in different clothes, they can put the pieces together. “People” being the ballerinas, whose gossip whirls around as quickly as a hurricane. Conjecture is turning in favor of her and Raoul having an affair. She’s not sure that he’d like that if he knew but it’s useful for her. Makes the other patrons think she already belongs to someone and heightens her prestige just a little.

(It might also reach the ears of her tutor. No—doubtless it already has. He has yet to significantly respond, but she has high hopes it will put him off.)

She pats his cheek when he’s finished tying her dress, and puts on her walking shoes. “How about you go walking by the Seine with me in the meantime?”

He agrees.

As they head out, she tells him about the new piece she’s trying to learn. He’ll assume it’s the choir director who assigned it, and she’ll let him assume that.

* * *

 

Erik’s _Don Juan Triumphant_ thunders and burns with frustration. He knows the Vicomte and Christine are not sleeping together—though rumors have spread, he gets his news firsthand. But there is something between the two of them regardless, tangible and tender and taunting. It’s not that Christine acts differently around Raoul exactly. She tells the same sorts of jokes, still has an air of amused, frank fondness. It is that she is somehow…more.

Raoul has been coming over more and more often. Christine has even begun to use some of his mannerisms. They would be charming if he didn’t know where they came from.

He has no excuse to kill Raoul, but he feels like it would give him a great deal of satisfaction.

* * *

 

Raoul listens to the opera consistently in the same box. Tonight, when he steps out to get a breath of air between acts, he finds himself standing next to the Persian, who leans against the wall meditatively.

He can’t have been waiting, surely. Raoul has rarely met eyes with the man. He cannot be worthy of the man’s interest.

The Persian says, “I’ve noticed you like Christine Daae.”

Everyone in the world knows that but Raoul blushes. Mostly because, the Persian? Noticing something about him? Anything at all would be flattering.

“You are very solicitous of her.”

“We are friends,” Raoul says emphatically. “Very good friends.”

The Persian nods. “You ought to keep an eye on her. She is in grave danger.”

Before Raoul can process that, the Persian pushes off the wall and begins to walk away. Raoul darts forward and almost grabs his arm before thinking better of it. Instead, he steps in front of the Persian, who looks at him patiently.

“What’s your name?” Raoul says.

The Persian says, “Rahim.”

Raoul nods. The Persian steps around him and leaves.

Rahim.

Later he conveys Rahim’s warning to Christine, who laughs and says he shouldn’t pay it any mind. She is hiding something from him. But then, isn’t she always?

He wonders when he will see Rahim again.

* * *

 

Meg never thought yellow was one of Christine’s colors—always before she wore richer blues and decorated her room in blues and pinks, with the occasional spot of red. These days, though, the de Chagny boy’s roses are beginning to take over her dressing room. They look garish.

“I ought to get you some roses sometime too,” she tells Christine.

Christine says, “Everyone gets me roses. Get me some lilies or irises for a change.”

And yet she likes roses when they come from de Chagny. It isn’t fair.

* * *

 

“Philippe thinks I want to marry you,” Raoul says.

Christine laughs. Philippe has always been paranoid.

“I don’t think he’s ever been friends with a girl he wasn’t sleeping with,” Raoul says ruefully. “At least he isn’t trying to make me take you as a mistress.”

“Has he tried to make you take a mistress before?”

“So many times.” Raoul shakes his head. “Even more so lately.”

“Why? Has he heard about your Persian?”

“There’s nothing going on with me and Rahim.”

“No, there isn’t, but to hear you tell it…” Christine laughs again. Raoul hasn’t even seen the Persian since their last enigmatic meeting and yet he talks about the Persian nearly every time they meet, though sometimes it is only a brief mention. If Philippe found out, he would have bigger worries than an innocent Swede.

“Have you ever considered marrying?” Raoul asks.

“Marrying you or marrying in general?”

“Either. Both.”

“Yes,” Christine says. “I’ve considered it.”

He doesn’t ask her what she thinks of the idea. Gives her a long moment. She says at last, “As a last resort.”

“I don’t think I’ll have to for a while,” Raoul says. “As long as I go on the expedition.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It can’t be helped.”

He will be leaving in a few months, leaving for quite a while. Why on Earth Philippe is fine with his baby brother going off to Antarctica Christine will never know. Why Raoul thinks it is a good idea is even more of a mystery.

Really, she thinks, she ought to get him together with that Persian. Then he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave anymore.

* * *

 

“You’ve been watching the Vicomte de Chagny lately,” Erik observes.

Rahim, who is dripping wet after another faulty attempt to break into Erik’s house, nods.

Erik grumbles. “Why is everyone in Paris obsessed with that idiot boy?”

“He seems to be a decent sort,” Rahim says.

“Decent and dull and stupid.”

“He isn’t having an affair with Christine Daae, so why should he concern you?”

Because it’s impossible to escape him. Slowly his influence is worming its way throughout the opera house. Erik has begun to feel claustrophobic every time his name comes up.

One day, he thinks, he will go home and find a yellow rose sitting on top of his organ. His nightmares are full of red scarves.

* * *

 

Meg runs into Raoul as she is leaving Christine’s room. She gives him a long look before letting him go in.

Pretty, she thinks. Very pretty.

She wonders if he will ever decide he does want to sleep with Christine after all. She wonders if, given the opportunity, Christine could resist. She wonders whether Christine would even bother.

* * *

 

“Rahim kissed me,” Raoul says.

He looks at her very seriously, as if he doubts she will believe him. Christine hesitantly nods.

“Things did seem to be headed in that direction.”

Recently he told Christine they met up again a couple times. Talked, in that odd, solemn way that Raoul finds romantic but would probably drive Christine insane. Made a couple passes at each other. It wasn’t a sure thing the Persian was interested, but a good bet.

Raoul blushes. “I had not kissed anyone before now.”

This is surprising. Certainly Raoul does not brag about any conquests, and Christine knows he does not like women very much or even that many men, but with a face and a body like his it’s still…well, it would be easy for him to get sex or kissing or whatever he wants, so why doesn’t he?

She supposes it’s just another mystery about him. They never quite understand each other.

“Was it good?” she asks, dutifully gossipy.

“He has a little beard,” Raoul says. “Have you ever kissed anyone with a beard, Christine?”

“Once or twice.”

Raoul runs a hand over his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. Scritch scratch. Christine pictures it, pictures Raoul and the Persian pressed against each other, lips locked. Even though she’s imagined sex with Raoul before, even though she knows Raoul likes the Persian, it’s an odd idea.

“Do you think I really could take him walking by the Seine?” Raoul asks.

“I don’t know. Is that something you really want to do?”

“It seems like something people who like each other do.”

“Well, if you want to do it, I think he would.” Christine shrugs. “He seems lonely, don’t you think?”

Raoul bites his lip. “He left very quickly after kissing me. But he said he would see me again.”

“Well, that seems promising.”

“He might disappear for another week.”

“Maybe not. Men get clingy after kissing someone.” Girls too. Meg is beginning to act a little possessive, a little catty when Christine flirts with other girls. Christine isn’t sure what to do. She doesn’t want to cut Meg off, but she doesn’t want to belong to Meg entirely either, not the way Meg seems to want these days.

“I hope I see him soon,” Raoul says, and Christine shakes her own worries away for the moment.

“Yes, that would be good. And you must tell me how things progress.”

“It seems promising that he kissed me,” Raoul says. “But…do you think he’ll do it again?”

“If you ask.”

“I’m not sure I want to. Not just yet.”

“You’re sweet,” Christine says, and he gives her an irritated look, and she laughs and apologizes. God forbid anyone think he’s sweet.

* * *

 

Philippe never finds out about that walk by the Seine, where Raoul and Rahim talk about the way things are at the opera house, talk about life, talk about philosophy, talk about the differences between Persia and Paris and the differences between women and men. Philippe still believes Raoul only goes to the opera house to see Christine Daae.

It would be fine if she was a mistress. Boys have certain appetites. But Raoul is wasting his time on this…what even is this sort of platonic entanglement? It’s distracting him from chasing any sort of legitimate romance or affair. Distracting him from his duties as well.

Just the other day he told Philippe he thought he might not go to Antarctica with the expedition. Clearly all this time around a woman is softening his head.

* * *

 

“Do you love me?” Meg asks.

Christine stares down at the bouquet of irises in her lap. Love. Love. She has never understood the importance people attach to the word, the significance, the exclusivity. She loves Meg. She loves Raoul. She loves Madame Giry. She loves the outside air in the summer. She loves flowers. She loves singing. In a way she even loves her tutor.

“Yes,” she says, knowing Meg will take it the wrong way.

* * *

 

“Things would be simpler,” Christine says, “if it were just you and me.”

They are lying on their backs in the park, sun-baked grass warm even through their clothes. They might hold hands if they wanted to. Christine curls in against Raoul. He, too, is warm.

“You’ve been melancholy lately,” Raoul says.

“Meg is in love with me.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Yes, it’s very bad.”

“Well, you may have to break things off with her.”

“You are so nonchalant about everything,” Christine says. “Have you ever broken off a love affair? No? I didn’t think so. You’ve never had one…except for your Persian, whatever that is.”

“You can call him Rahim.”

“He’s never introduced himself to me.”

“Perhaps you could tell Meg you want more distance,” Raoul suggests. All his suggestions come from either advice given by Philippe or what he has observed in operas. This one clearly comes from Philippe. It’s not bad advice, exactly, just easier said than done.

“I’ll tell her I need space,” she says. Closes her eyes. Her eyelids are colored orange by the sunlight. The sun itself is not yellow, she knows, but it is still friendly.

At least, she thinks, Meg is likely to listen to her, if she gets her point across sharply. She won’t keep hassling and hassling like her tutor. The Angel of Music is moody lately, and she is never quite sure when she’ll finally say something that goes over the line.

“Things would be simpler if it were just you and me,” she says to Raoul again. “Or if everyone could be like you and me, if we could all just…” She flops her arms against the grass.

“Might get boring,” Raoul says.

“Maybe.”

Raoul walks her home that evening. He tells her that if she has trouble with Meg he’ll always be around to talk. She laughs and tells him she’s always around too, and thank you.

He has given her a fresh bunch of flowers today, picked in the park. They are all buttercups and goldenrods. She puts them in a vase beside her bed, hoping the smell of sun and grass will linger and they will not dry out too fast.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you take an idea and run with it without outlining or having any idea what the plot is. "Queerplatonic R/C!" I thought to myself and with literally no other plan in mind an entire mess of fragmented fic appears.  
> Raoul/Daroga segments are dedicated to generalsleepy. The Daroga's name has been stolen from littlelonghairedoutlaw.  
> I hope you enjoyed.


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